


To Kids From One to Ninety-Two

by wowthatsloud



Category: Haven - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Guns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:45:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wowthatsloud/pseuds/wowthatsloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was feeling Christmassy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Kids From One to Ninety-Two

Frankie McCormack sat at his desk, with only the light of his small lamp to guide his reading, leaving the rest of his tiny bedroom in near darkness. His hands rubbed at his tired eyes; the inevitable battle between fatigue and anticipation. He was almost finished the last chapter of Tantalising Necromancies, and it would be the first book he read all on his own, without the help of his parents. And as for tomorrow… Frankie vividly imagined the sight of a parcel underneath his tree, wrapped with paper and bow and shaped suspiciously like a paperback novel, shivered with the want of it.

His father poked his head around the door and smiled at him. “Isn’t it about time to be going to bed, kiddo? It’s a big day tomorrow.”  
Frankie obliged, immediately hopping down from his chair and into his bed, tucked in so that hardly the top of his feathery brown head of hair poked out.  
And he knew he needn’t save his breath – Cliff McCormack Sr knew the drill for Christmas Eve bedtimes far better than he did. It was, he always said, because his parents had done it with him when he was a child, and so on and so on right to the beginnings of the family itself. Even so, the magic wasn’t lost on Frankie, in fact the history of the ritual only made it even moreso for the young boy.

He mouthed along as his father half sang, half chanted the words,

_“Dear sweet little boy_  
 _Don’t you worry about your stocking_  
 _Santa knows you’re a wonderful boy_  
 _And wonderful boys, Santa never forgets.”_

His father’s hand came up to ruffle his hair, and after he kissed him on the forehead Frankie said, “I just wish--” and bit his tongue.  
“You wish what, Frankie?”  
Frankie looked at his father with a pitying, apologetic gaze, knowing even at that age that his words would hurt his father much more than they could ever hurt him. “I just wish mom was here.” He said this softly and hurriedly, as if maybe his father wouldn’t notice.

But he did. And his eyes moistened as his father desperately clutched Frankie to him, knowing the embrace was as much for his benefit, because nothing would bring her back, and dad would never be the same for it. Wishing he didn’t miss her this desperately.  
After successfully stifling his sobs, his father raised his head. “I wish she was here too, Francis,” he managed. “I don’t want to do this without her.”

McCormack Sr left abruptly, not wanting his son to see him cry on Christmas. His son was intelligent enough to know that he was, and that it was okay to as well.

He tucked himself in that night, turned off his bedside lamp, and wished. Screwed his eyes shut so tight he could see stars exploding, held his breath with want, pictured Santa – he simply had to make it come true if it was Christmas, right? So Frankie wished, and he wished, and he wished – not for himself this time, daddy had already tried that and it hadn’t worked, but for everyone. Everyone in this town that deserved to be happy this Christmas and wasn’t.

He just hoped whoever was in charge of Christmas had heard him.

  
-  


Call it a death wish, call it foolish festive optimism, or what you will, it didn’t stop the circumstances surrounding Dwight Hendrickson’s Christmas morning. He should not have been walking around without his vest, plain and simple, but he realised he had left his kevlar behind a full two blocks away from his house, and shrugged off the idea of turning back for it. After all, he was a man on a mission that day– equipped with a santa hat, a christmas jumper and a sack of Christmas cards for Haven’s loneliest senior citizens, he was determined to bring festive cheer to even the most remote corners of this town. 

And he was even feeling it himself, a little. He was never really a huge Christmas person, much unlike the people who had held onto their cherishment of it from childhood (it had been a major source of resentment, for him.) Even further along his life when he’d had a child to enjoy it with, and then no longer had one, the sight of mothers and fathers exchanging love and gifts with their children had made him sick. Today, it brought a smile to his face; a rare, genuine, purposeless smile that he could scare believe himself feel tugging at the corners of his mouth. For once, everything felt fine and okay and right (that had been what caused his last mistake), and being responsible for Haven felt like a blessing rather than a curse. Even now, when the troubles seemed to be holding off (causing that fatal optimism again), Dwight knew there was no time to kick his feet up. He served the citizens, and that didn’t mean just zipping up body bags and knocking on doors and giving those terrible parcels of news that destroyed souls from the outside in. No, it meant being there during times like right now, when citizens like Pattie Conmore could probably use him.

“Ho, ho, ho!” The front door had been left open, and Dwight cautiously let himself in, marking his arrival with the jolliest cheer he could muster. No one answered, and Dwight peeked into the living room, which was empty, then back out onto the landing. Silence answered him. He was unsure of himself now, and a cold, creeping feeling like cold water down his neck came to him, as he began to plan for a darker, unexpected surprise within the house.

But then Pattie replied, loud as ever, “Hendrickson?! Is that you, boy?” Dwight heard his voice from the direction of the garage, and crossed back through the house to go and meet it. He heard Pattie’s voice from a distance, but it was as if every word was spoken right in front of him. “Merry Christmas, boy! How are you these days? Isn’t it great?” Pattie’s voice sounded as cheerful as ever, which was a plain relief considering what Dwight had begun to expect. “My grandson is coming to pick me up in a few hours; we’re going big game hunt-”

Dwight had found the garage. It was through a door by the side of the quaint little kitchen Pattie owned, which seemed to be used only on special occasions, like today was. He probably ate at the community centre most other days, to be with company.  
The door was windowed, but with that blurry, fogged kind of glass that meant Dwight could only barely make out the shape of Pattie Conmore, bent over his workbench, bellowing loudly like only he knew. It took opening the door and taking a few steps in to realise what Pattie was actually doing – cleaning out a pistol.

With the safety off.

Oh, Pattie.

He didn’t even have to hear the bang to register the gunshot. All Dwight could think was that dying on Christmas was a really freaking lousy way to go out.


End file.
